


Propagation of the Species

by twofoldAxiom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Flora & Fauna, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Come Inflation, Daywalkers, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fungus Zombies, Graphic Description, Karkat Dies At The End, M/M, Necrophilia, Other, Tentacle Rape, Threesome, Troll Dave Strider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 13:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12458712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofoldAxiom/pseuds/twofoldAxiom
Summary: Karkat Vantas is on a ship where the engines are overtaxed and they have to land on an unknown alien planet. The atmosphere is hospitable. The local organisms are not.





	Propagation of the Species

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I left this sitting in my folders for over a year, which is a shame, because I really should be posting more weird shit. Was going to be an entry in a horror-erotica anthology, but I didn't finish in time, so here it is instead. I remember talking about it to some people, so I'm glad it managed to garner some interest there.
> 
> Heed the warnings, this is. Kind of gross.
> 
> (If you think it needs a warning that I missed, please say so.)

You breathe hard, Sunspear-class plasma rifle trembling in your grip as you fight to quiet yourself in your little hidey hole. The rest of your squad is either dead or have their sensors offline according to the readout on your eyepiece, and you’re not sure which one you’re hoping is true. 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’re so scared you could piss yourself.

You should have all gone back when you’d seen the bodies, recognizable as such despite the tangles of oozing plant matter blooming out of grey-green flesh. You should never have set foot on this shithive planet in the first place, should have chanced to land at the next habitable zone despite the overtaxed starship engine.

You should have at least  _ turned around  _ when you saw them. Those people weren’t trolls, but they were damn well close enough to worry about, uncanny with mushrooms sprouting from their lacerated flesh. Someone thought it would be a brilliant idea to strip them of useful tools and supplies, you’d all raided the dead encampment with no thought to what could have killed these people like this. You’re troll spacers, after all. You can take on anything. 

Then your crew started complaining of dizziness, cramps, a fuzzy feeling in the mouth and head. Then they started sprouting fungal growths like an aggressive daywalker strain, tendrils writhing out of their mouths like the seeking fronds of an anemone.

You were lucky you were too squeamish to handle the spore-ridden bodies. Or maybe not so lucky, if you’re one of the few left to deal with these monsters in the middle of a jungle.

You hear something slither closer and whine in the back  of your throat. This was supposed to be a routine supply drop mission. This was supposed to be what cadets like you did to prove that you could handle the cramped quarters and recycled air and other shitty conditions a starship offers before being given a real job to do. You were supposed to get home before the fucking fuel core malfunctioned, and the fucking ship had to land on a planet that  _ hungered. _

You wish you could remember what prayers sounded like, any prayers, as you check and recheck the magazines left in your rifle. There are three rounds left, since you’d all tried to fight back. Three reinforced polymer capsules of volatile chemicals that would be superheated through the gun’s chambers before exploding against whatever they were launched at. Three rounds of concentrated desperation. Three rounds against things that wouldn’t go down when you shot at them unless you went for the knees, that kept coming if you didn’t, that staggered through the shots and pinned your comrades down and…

Your eyes sting, in shame and horror and revulsion as your gastric sac heaves. You gulp quietly to keep it down; the only reason you’re still alive is because you ran, you remind yourself. Your fingers tighten on the rifle again as you take your gulping, ragged breaths and try to think.

Those breaths hitch in your throat when you hear the leaky burble of thick, viscous fluid, the ragged rattle of partially blocked airways. You stop breathing entirely as you pull the gun tight against your chest, before turning over and crouching on one knee as quietly as you can. You look into the gloom, your blood hammering through your skull. Once you might have thought darkness like this calming, reminding you of the safe haven of your recuperacoon, but knowing what’s close by, you can’t stop your bloodpusher pounding against your sternum, making your pulse throb painfully in your ears.

Nothing shows in your eyepiece, not when you switch to infrared or anything. You hear the burble again, closer this time, and whimper.

A twig snaps.

A number of things happen at once: You whirl around screaming, distantly realizing that doing so has given away your position and you don’t give a damn as you fire the first round at where you hear the sound coming from. The plasma capsule explodes in a dazzling splatter of heat that makes the oppressive jungle air that much more humid, that much less forgiving. Sweat drips into your eyes and you swear as you fire again, knowing it’ll take a critical hit to down these  _ things _ . 

The bright spray illuminates what you’re shooting at for a moment, the lurching, twisted body of one of your comrades. He’s nude and raw-skinned from the infectious growths, fluids dissolving biosuit and the top layers of skin. It’s grotesque, the slack face and dead eyes, fingerlike growths rupturing the thinnest points in their skin. Where the plasma hits, the flesh burns away, and you can see the still-wet guts full of lumpy, spongy  _ stuff _ gleaming inside, writhing to keep the body moving. You retch again, sobbing in terror through the bile rising in your throat.

It’s nimble and strong for what amounts to a lichen-infused corpse, would be impressive if you could appreciate anything through your kneejerk, animal fear. You scream as it springs closer, backing you up through the undergrowth and slick mud as you desperately try to aim your last round at its legs. You don’t really know what amounts to a critical hit, but you can incapacitate it and beat it to death if you can just get the damn thing to hold still.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck-  _ fuck! _ ” It’s on you then, and your screams turn to wordless, desperate noise as you drop the gun and turn, trying to claw into the damp earth and pull yourself away.

It pins you at the waist and you whimper, almost-claws of calcified growth or mutated bone digging into your sides from its burst, bloody fingertips. You can feel the wetness on your skin through your suit, feel the misty air clinging to your face like layers of spiderweb as you thrash. Some kind of awful, almost familiar chirp rattles out of its mangled throat, and you feel something  _ drooling  _ onto your back.

“No, no, no,  _ please! _ ” You can barely see with the mud on your face and the greenish darkness, but you can feel the fluid starting to eat through your clothes, running down your sides. You feel the artificially-moistened tongue, feline-rough with fungal lumps as it drags across your suit’s protective fabric to spread the thinning juices. You feel it press between your shoulderblades, a sick mockery of how a lover might touch you.

It  _ bites  _ you, and you scream and redouble your efforts to pull out of its arms as you feel the teeth closing around the curve of your hip in a way that’s almost sensual, until it turns tight enough to bruise. Then it starts to pull back, flesh still held in its teeth along with a good stretch of your suit. The flesh slid out at least, you were never so glad to have flat-toothed lowbloods for squadmates before, but the weakened, sticky fabric stays. You hear it rip with the faint pop of microfibers that should have been stronger than spider silk as the it peels a strip off your back.

You grind your teeth with a shiver and a wretched sob as cool, wet skin meets yours. One of your hands reaches out and clings to the root in front of you while the other digs furrows into the soft earth. There’s no reasoning with these things, but you babble all the same, pleading, cursing, panicky almost-prayers to the cadence of “Fuck, let me go, don’t,  _ don’t!” _

Something steps on your outstretched hand and you yelp as you’re dragged back through the muck to the zombie behind you, propped up on your chest and knees with your now-bared ass pressed to its groin. You can feel its bulge, highblood-cold and coiling like a living thing between the cheeks, and then over the lips of your nook where it oozes more of its parasite slime. For a brief moment, you’re struck with wondering how something like this could know a troll’s body well enough to get its bulge out when for all intents and purposes it’s  _ dead _ , but the hand twisting in your hair and yanking your head up pushes the thought from your mind.

It’s another one. You  _ recognize  _ this one, the face still intact, the parasite not yet having burst its most obvious protrusions through the holes in the skull. The head lolls obscenely, slack mouth already oozing pinkish digestive drool. It’s the captain, or what used to be.

“Dave!” Your voice cracks as you reach up to it, but the first one grabs your wrist and pins it back down, then pins you down by the back of the neck, your face pushed down into the ground and a few strands of your hair torn out of your scalp, making your eyes water. You turn your head and gasp, blinded with mud and grit. There’s no hope of seeing now, but you can still hear everything, that gross, wet burbling of almost-speech between the remains of your friends, before the softened thud of Dave’s knees hitting the ground and cold, clammy feeling of hands wiping the mud from your face.

“Dave, damn you,  _ help me! _ ” It’s hopeless, but somehow it only makes you feel worse when the body doesn’t hesitate in the slightest to open its mouth wider, a thicker stream of clear, pink drool spilling onto your face. You only have enough time to clap your eyes and mouth shut before too much of it can spill into them, but the stinging, sweetish taste of it is there, the viscous wrongness of it sitting heavy and cool on your tongue. The parasite doesn’t like that it seems, because there’s more coughing between them, before the weight is lifted off your back and your head is yanked up again.

You yelp, though it’s quickly silenced by a couple of fingers gagging you on the taste of earth and sickly-sweet slime. You crunch down on instinct and earn yourself a spurt of dead, congealing blood and an ache in your teeth as you crack down on fingerbones. The acid sting in the back of your throat makes you tear up more, snot dribbling out of your nose, filthy, disgusting drool sliding down your chin in fat strings. You don’t dare gulp, your guts tight with horror and pain and disgust.

The mangled fingers in your mouth are joined by a couple more as you squirm weakly, still dripping with digestive slick. Your tongue burns from the fluids, your jaw aches as it’s forced wider and wider by the intruding digits. The tears prickling in your eyes make streaks down your face from pain and terror and the aching feeling like it’s going to rip your jaw right off. You kind of wish it would instead of what’s really coming; you brace yourself for it as you feel the one behind you grinding more insistently against your clenching nook.

It doesn’t help when it finally manages to find the seam. You tense up and scream around the fingers as it pushes in, less out of pain and more out of the clawing horror that is realizing this is real, this is happening, and much as you want to bite down again, the four fingers pushing your jaw open are too strong to bite through even where your teeth have dented them and torn the partially-digested flesh. The other hand joins it now, cupping your face, thumb pressing in against your lips, and you blink and shudder as you feel the deep ache between your legs as the first one goes deeper and deeper still until its hips are flush with your ass. The only bare respite you get while you gulp and choke around the fingers probing your tongue is how slowly it goes, though it does nothing for the tightening panic under your ribs.

Frigid fingers with its bony claws dig into your waist, the pulsing length of its bulge huge and snaking between your shameglobes in a way that would have felt good if not for the sheer vileness of it all. Dave’s parasite almost seems to take pity on you as it strokes the top of your head, between your horns, closes its clammy fingers over the base of one in a way that makes you moan despite how it makes you want to crawl out of your skin, but this close you can see the lump between its legs in turn, unfurling into the length of Dave’s bulge, and when its hand comes away from your face you can feel the strings of sticky-cool slime snapping against your sweaty skin, right next to your eye.

You mumble around the mess of fingers in your mouth, sob as you feel the one behind you grinding harder into your nook. Matching growls overhead meet your last-ditch effort to pull away, to yank the hand out of your mouth or pull away from the bulge inside you or  _ something  _ before the hands on you tighten hard enough to finally break skin, under your tongue and on your hips. The noise you make is unholy.

Your hands clench in the dirt as you look up at Dave’s corpse, pleading with something that can’t feel mercy as its bulge brushes your stretched, trembling lips. Your tongue swipes out against it on instinct, against the fingers still stuffing your face. 

Of course you realize it immediately and recoil, but it’s enough that the parasite can move its fingers to the side, just between your teeth to hold your jaw open while it starts feeding Dave’s bulge into your open mouth. The first one pulls out partway and the two push inwards at the same time, filling you on either end. You choke, writhing on their bulges, trying to bite down or squeeze them out to no avail. Dave’s pulls you forward by the hair while the one behind you surges into you with an aching roll of the hips, and you would have screamed if you could breathe, but the bulge down your mouth, twisting in the tightness of your throat, leaks a steady stream of thick, clogging slime in some sick imitation of prematerial.

You can’t imagine what this must look like from the outside, what kind of pity or revulsion you would inspire if anyone could see you now. Mostly because you’re too busy choking on bulge, your hands coming up to try and push Dave’s hips away from you. Your clothes fall off your body in wet, sticking blobs as they keep drooling on you, and their bulges twist in unison, like maybe the parasite isn’t just a dumb fungus trying to propagate. It feels like there’s malice behind the movement as they thoroughly violate you, petting you, licking you, running their fingers through your hair and over the sensitive slits of your gills.

You look up at Dave’s face, slack in death and think, you regret not taking him pitch when he was alive. You don’t know why you’re thinking it in the middle of something like this; there’s a roiling in your guts that threatens to take you back to the present, the tingling all over your sweaty skin, the way your nook ripples and your bulge unsheathes despite the horror of it all. You hear moaning and realize it’s yours and you suddenly want to bite your tongue off and scream as it slams you back into where you were.

Just in time for the bodies to cum.

It’s not like troll genetic material, even if it’s in the same volume, so you assume it’s riding on that. It’s sticky and gritty, like grubmeal, with spheres and pellets interspersed like half-dissolved pearls. You gag as it fills your throat and shudder, retching, as you feel it filling your nook. Then it starts to itch, and then burn, your whole body set alight with it; sets you to convulsions as your bulge extends the rest of the way and you need to touch it, you need to stroke yourself to soothe this urge.

The pistoning keeps up but now your desperate pawing is a different kind. You still cling to Dave’s hip but your other hand is between your legs as the bulge stuffing your nook pumps more of its load into you, and you’re sick with it, you’re sick  _ of _ it, but it feels so good to wrap your fingers around your bulge and  _ squeeze _ .

It hurts so good, the way they rut into your body, the way they rasp their tongues over your back, until it just plain hurts. You squeeze and stroke your bulge until you cum in turn, your genetic material dribbling between your fingers mixed with blood where you’ve squeezed too hard in your desperation, your legs shaking and your throat tight around the bulge in your mouth, but they don’t stop. They don’t pick up any faster, but they don’t stop moving even when they’ve stopped pouring into you, inexhaustible, inexorable. Your eyes roll up from overstimulation as you gurgle around Dave’s bulge, horror creeping back into you as you realize you’re likely going to be very literally fucked to death.

Your fingers come away wet, smearing bulge fluid and blood on Dave’s hips when you try, weakly, to pull away again. They crowd you in with their weight, leaning in over you; you could almost imagine them looking down on you as they fuck you, as your nook tries to suck in the bulge and the weird little spheres all the way to your genebladder. Drool and cum leaks down your chin and some even leaks out of your nose as you claw at Dave’s hips and find your fingers coming away with ribbons of dead skin. Your vision is going hazy from lack of air, and you’re so full you could burst.

They pull out at the same time, practically dropping you, and you gasp for air, every breath aching and heavy and wet. Your limbs won’t hold you up and your skin is still burning all over, dully now, but painfully, like sunburn. You whimper as you feel the little spheres in your nook leaking out with the parasite’s cum, and try to cover yourself weakly as the two of them turn you over.

“No- no more,” You hiccup with fullness, with the feeling of fluid sloshing in you so close to the back of your throat. Every touch feels like you’re going to be stripped of a layer of fat and skin, movement making your insides lurch uncomfortably close to the surface. It’s a terrifying reminder that that could happen when you look down and see the one who attacked you first, guts hanging out like vines, crawling towards you. You want to faint. You  _ can’t. _

You kick anyway and feel a hand clamp around your ankle, and then you can’t help the hysterical laughter-screams that come when you’re pinned again, this time on your back, looking up at the jungle canopy while you feel slick, tendrilous things creeping up your legs. You could imagine it’s their guts and that makes you thrash, makes your insides clench up and cramp with the need to get everything  _ out _ .

Dave’s body strokes your face again, a macabre imitation of soothing. Your vision is blurry with tears and then razor sharp with the sudden intrusion of those tendrils pushing into your ass, and you scream and fight with renewed vigor, cursing, crying, praying. Nothing hears you out here. The hole is stretched open slowly, but roughly, and your protests eventually die down into whimpers again as you take in the helplessness of your situation.

“Fucking  _ kill me already!”  _ You beg, but you know they won’t, not yet. The slick slide of something pushing in and out of your ass makes your skin crawl, makes your whole body shudder. Your lips are dry and sticky-sweet, cracking despite the humidity. Your mouth is fuzzy, your head spinning.

You feel a tickle in the back of your throat and turn your head to vomit but nothing comes. It happens again, in time with the way the thing between your legs steadily fucks you open. You writhe and cough, but whatever it is sticking to your tonsils won’t go away.

“No more…” You plead, weakly, as you feel the wetness up your ass start to really pour, so far inside you that it makes your belly swell further. You can’t see over the curve of it now, where once it was flat with muscle; now you look like you’ve eaten three trolls’ worth of food and haven’t stopped, and you feel just as much like you’re not going to be able to hold it all in.

It stops just on the very edge of where you feel you’re going to rip right open. The tendrils pull out and the bodies pull away from you, leaving you cold and full. You lie there, sticky, naked, dizzy with sex and pain. Your nook itches like nothing else and your vision is spinning, and you can’t lift your arms to deal with any of it.

Time passes and you can finally get some control over your arms and legs. You’re still full to bursting, sloshing when you force yourself to sit up, and you know you don’t have much time left. There’s no one to save with what you’re about to do, but you know you don’t want to face whatever fate this parasite inside you has in store.

You resign yourself to dragging your sorry ass back to the ship, your legs like jelly, forcing you to practically crawl through the underbrush like an animal. Your hands and knees can’t take it for long, though, and you end up flopping onto your side and crying some more.

The cramps start not long after. Hot, lancing pain, like being stabbed with hot metal, and you’re well and truly familiar with a feeling like that. It intensifies until you find yourself gasping and rolling onto your side, clutching your swollen middle and feeling it  _ wriggle _ . The itch in your throat and nook don’t subside after that, and is joined by waves of a different, more intimate kind of pain that you can’t fully identify. You whimper and drag yourself a few feet further, before you bury your face against the loamy jungle floor and wait for it to pass.

It doesn’t, and you soon forget what you were trying to do. You feel the roiling getting worse, crawling up your throat and down your guts like something growing. Your skin feels like pins and needles, hot with electricity. You can’t think past the haze, but somehow you find yourself lurching to your feet as blood runs down your chin and your legs.

Your bulge is still out, twitching weakly. You feel your skin cracking, stretching in weak points, crooks of your elbows, joints of your fingers, the slits of your gills. Flowering things, spongy and almost muscular at once. You look down at the growths and feel numb as it eats into your bones and brain. You walk.

Your body is a vessel for growth. You need to find meat, and spore.


End file.
